


watch repair

by caramelchameleon



Category: Don't Hug Me I'm Scared (Short Film)
Genre: Dissection, F/M, clock anatomy, creative uses for watch repair tools, handjobs, the exact moment when my life went spiraling downhill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 10:16:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1465684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelchameleon/pseuds/caramelchameleon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the sketchbook gets tired of waiting for tony to come out of his room, and decides to come check on him.<br/>this was originally posted on my tumblr. e...enjoy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	watch repair

He keeps his tools neatly arranged and highly polished, lined up in the drawers of a small desk in the corner of the attic. Watch repair is an intricate and highly satisfying hobby, something he takes pride in, and keeps that infernal sketchbook away from at all costs. He’s been working with a particularly promising antique wristwatch for the past two days - cleaning, oiling, replacing parts, lovingly disassembling it and laying the pieces out just so. He’s finally gotten it how he wants it, ticking as smoothly as a dream, and he can defer sleep for only so long before slow reflexes and a foggy head become dangerous.

It won’t do to be careless, either, so he checks the lock on the door first, tucks the watch away in a drawer. Settles into his bed gratefully - eight hours of deep sleep should do it - 

He wakes up an hour and twenty-seven minutes early, with a bright light shining in his face. 

Dazed, he tries to raise a hand to cover his eyes, and finds his wrists held down with something - cold metal, squeezing painfully - he tugs at whatever it is, wishing he could turn his cumbersome head to the side to look.

“Really! Don’t struggle so much,” says a cheery voice, and he groans, shutting his eyes. “You’re impossible.”  
He hears faint metallic noises as the pressure on his arm increases. Sketchbook must be tightening the vise. 

“What are you doing?” He opens his eyes again, cautiously, squinting against the lamp shining in his face. Pages rustle softly as she moves into his view, looming over his prone form with a smile. She’s toying with a tiny screwdriver, rolling it back and forth in her delicate hands.

“I thought I’d check on you. You haven’t been out of this dreadfully stuffy room for days!”

“Only fifty-seven hours,” he protests, “and I was busy.” His legs, dangling off the edge of the desk, are bound, too - not with vises, but something thin and sharp that bites uncomfortably into his ankles when he squirms. Wire? His, probably. It would be bent out of shape and useless when he finally got it back.

“I thought you must be running slow! That’s the only reason you’d leave me alone for so long in this boring, boring house. Right?”

“I am certainly not -” he snaps, but her hand whips out, stabbing the screwdriver into the table, point first, just centimeters away from his face. He tries to discreetly scoot away from it, unable to bring himself to protest the cavalier way she’s treating his tools.

“So I’ve decided to take a look,” she continues, merrily. “You won’t object, will you?” She picks up another tool from the desk and plays with it idly. It’s meant for removing watch hands. He wonders if she knows that, and what she’ll use it for.

Tugging a little at one arm in an attempt to relieve the pressure, he considers his options and settles for, “Of course not.”

She smiles.

He shifts uncomfortably, trying to get comfortable on the hard surface of the desk, as she removes his bowtie and sets it aside. It’s a small detail, but he feels even more naked and vulnerable without it, especially when he’s forced to acknowledge his growing excitement. He keeps the door to his cuckoo clenched tightly shut - it’s the last thing he needs right now - 

Sketchbook leans over him again, clamps the tiny pincers over his clock hands. The minute hand twitches anxiously as he begins to panic in earnest - she really is going to take him apart, and she knows how to use his tools, too. 

“This is what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? I slipped in earlier to watch you work,” she tells him conversationally, pulling gently at his hands. “You really don’t notice much, do you?” Stupid! He hadn’t noticed at all - he was probably already addled with sleeplessness by that point, and then he’d even thoughtfully locked her in with him.

She tugs, sharply, and both hands come away from his face together. He lets out a strangled noise - something had snapped, he’d felt it - she smiles and shushes him, setting the tool and the hands down carefully. 

“We’ve barely started,” she says. “Don’t whine.”

She looks over the table, humming thoughtfully, and picks up something else that glints in the light. His eyes widen as he stares at the knife. A small one - meant for opening watch cases - but certainly too big for comfort.

“That’s - what are you going to -“

She strokes his face gently. “Shh! I need to get you open somehow, don’t I? I’ll be very careful - I sharpened it and everything.”

“Wait - you’re supposed to open watches from the back,” he protests, trying to kick his legs, do something to free himself. One leg tears open against the sharp wires - he can feel his stuffing getting forced out of the wound as he twists. It’s nauseating. “You’ll -“

“If you thrash around like that, it’ll only be harder for you! Honestly, Tony, sit still.” She brings the knife closer, and he obeys, eyes fixed on the shining blade. “That’s better! Not a scratch, I promise. As long as you behave.”

She works the knife into the side of his face, methodically, starting just below his left eye. He presses his lips together and does his best not to move or cry out as he’s cut open. Blood leaks out, he can feel it beading up along the arc of her cut. He counts the agonizing seconds, acutely aware of each one, until she’s completed the circle. 

“Was that really so bad?” she asks, cooing, and he realizes that he’s whimpering, softly. “Poor Tony.” She bends, pages crinkling, and kisses him on the cheek. 

Then she works her slim fingers into the wound and begins to lift his faceplate away, and he screams. Tendons rip as the plastic is peeled away, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight. Something inside him slips, skips a beat - he loses track of time, for an agonizing moment that might as well be an eternity.  
He opens his eyes a crack, cautiously. The lids are still intact, somehow. A breeze wafts over his exposed, hypersensitive flesh, making him shudder; curse this drafty attic. Sketchbook is laughing at something. He opens his eyes wider to look, cautiously.

His cuckoo is erect, standing proudly in the air. Sketchbook sets the bloody knife aside and examines it, smiling broadly - he tries to steady his harsh, rapid breathing. She prods it experimentally, running a finger over the delicately carved bird at the tip. He tries to stifle a gasp. No, no, oh no - he hadn’t realized, hadn’t even heard it chime - this wasn’t right at all -

“What’s this, Tony?” she asks, mischief in her voice. “Is it what I think it is?” He clenches his mouth shut, trembling, as she takes a firmer grip on his cock, watching his face closely. “Are you really enjoying yourself that much? My goodness.”

He writhes helplessly, trying to pull away from her; she reaches inside him and places her other hand on his exposed organs, humming to herself. His muscles ripple and twitch as she leans her weight forward, just slightly.

“Stop, please,” he babbles. “Just for a second - don’t, oh don’t do that, please, it hurts -“

She lets go of him with a contemptuous noise and turns away, picking through the tools scattered over the tabletop. He shudders, trying to relax and think through the pain. His arms ache dully where the vises clamp them, and he tries to flex his numb hands, moaning softly at the fresh pain the movement brings. His stuffing slips further out of the tear in his leg. And, mortifyingly, he’s enjoying it all, and the evidence of his arousal is too obvious to miss. 

Her arm brushes casually against his cuckoo as she leans forward again and he knows, knows, knows she did it on purpose. With a small clasp knife - no doubt freshly sharpened as well - she begins cutting into the thin layers of muscle, delicately peeling them open. Using some of his thinner screwdrivers and drill bits, she neatly pins back the flesh, exposing his organs to the air. His lungs heave as he takes a shaking breath, eyes fluttering shut. 

“You know, everything looks in pretty good shape, here,” she muses, thoughtful. “Maybe all those gears need is a little lubrication. What do you think, Tony?” 

He forces his eyes open to look - she’s holding out an empty hand, palm down, and he watches in horror as thick black liquid oozes out of her palm, dripping in long, viscous strings. He recoils as far as he’s able, staked down and spread open, but the disgusting stuff splashes on his face, seeps inside him. It’s cool, almost cold.

He opens his mouth to protest, and she shoves her hand _inside_ , dribbles ink down his throat. He gags, eyes watering, and she mercifully pulls away, watches him choke and struggle not to swallow. It dribbles out of the corner of his mouth as he sobs, takes great heaving gasps of air. 

She turns her attention back to his trembling erection, coating it with vile black fluid - both hands now, working up and down the length of his shaft. It’s absolutely filthy - she’s made a mess of his desk, his tools, and not least, himself - and his own body, even through pain, is responding. He groans, trying to find the leverage and the strength to push his hips upward, but can’t manage anything of substance. She pulls her hands away teasingly, continues dripping inky globs of liquid over his member and his exposed flesh. He shudders, bile rising and adding to the lingering taste in his mouth. 

“That’s better,” she tells him. “That looks so pretty. Don’t you think?” She begins pumping her slick hands up and down his shaft in earnest, drawing pathetically desperate sounds from him. He’s close, so close - an alarm sounds, dissonant tones that blend harshly with his voice as he shouts -

He wakes up two hours and thirty-one minutes later, apparently free from his bonds and in one piece. The lamp has been switched off, the vises loosened. He sits up, shakily, and begins massaging his sore wrists, gently squishing the compressed stuffing back into its proper shape. He pats his face, afraid of what he might find, but finds only smooth plastic, with perhaps a bit of a seam running around the edge. Even the tear in his leg has been neatly stitched up. The desk is splattered with ugly black and brown stains, as are his precious tools - and, for that matter, so is he. He lowers himself to the ground on shaking feet, and begins slinking downstairs, praying he won’t encounter anyone on the way. He tries not to think about what the vile black fluid must have done to his insides. It might not be time for a bath, but he fully intends to scrub himself raw.


End file.
